


a truth like water

by SoManyJacks



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, F/F, Halamshiral, Hopeful Ending, Reunions, bad dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-10
Updated: 2017-11-10
Packaged: 2019-01-31 12:41:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12682098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoManyJacks/pseuds/SoManyJacks
Summary: Leliana and Morrigan reunite in the library of Halamshiral. Written for the Black Emporium Exchange.





	a truth like water

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_wrote](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_wrote/gifts).



It was easy to think of truth as inviolate, something unmoving and unshifting. Bedrock. 

Leliana knew otherwise. Truth was like water; it could scald or drown or freeze, depending on context. And there was an ocean of difference between  _ knowing _ something to be true, and  _ believing _ it.

Leliana was adrift in that ocean now; only a lifetime of training kept her from drowning in the halls of Halamshiral. Oh, she had known that Morrigan would be there. She had _known_ all along the identity of Celene’s ‘mysterious occult advisor’. It was not, after all, much of a secret. 

But the knowledge did little to help her when she caught sight of Morrigan across the crowded ballroom. It was then that knowledge became belief, and the ocean crashed upon her.

Morrigan was still so beautiful.

Leliana’s training saved her. It gave her the willpower to focus on the task at hand, rather than lambaste herself in the bittersweet torture of continuing to watch Morrigan, who had only grown more lovely in the ten years since they'd parted. It allowed her to inform the Inquisitor, in objective and unemotional terms, who he would be dealing with. Better to focus on her work than chew over old memories, now worn smooth as ocean glass: the way Morrigan’s eyes glinted when she laughed, the silk of her long neck, the seeming ease with which she had vanished and left Leliana heartbroken. 

In the meantime, the tasks at hand competed for Leliana’s attention. There was a flurry of violence, conducted out of sight. Leliana received reports, assimilated facts, did her job. The Duchess was apprehended, Celene was unharmed, and the Inquisitor emerged victorious.

After, then. When the real celebrations were taking place, Leliana gave in. She slipped into the upstairs library, dark but not silent, the strains of music from the ballroom echoing through the rafters. She walked slowly through the empty space. “So this is where you’ve been hiding,” Leliana murmured to herself. 

After many hours of holding herself together, she tried to relax and allow herself to feel, expecting the old pain to batter her, drag her to the depths. When none came, she frowned to herself. Perhaps there was nothing to fear, after all. But there was something else: the sudden realization that she was not alone.

“You say that as if you haven’t known where I’ve been all this time,” a voice said from behind her.

There was no danger. Leliana knew who spoke. Indeed, the voice was carved onto her bones; she vibrated in sympathetic response. For an instant, Leliana considered simply walking away. Instead, she made the deliberate choice to turn. 

Morrigan stood in a pool of moonlight by the window. The silver light had sapped the color from her dress, making the burgundy velvet appear brown and drab. Morrigan’s eyes, however, were golden as ever. 

Leliana tipped her head, acknowledging the remark, but said nothing further. What was there to say? 

Morrigan stared at her a moment longer, then turned her gaze outside. “I have to admit, I think I like your Inquisitor,” she drawled, moving to the window, her hips swishing. “He seemed very glad to have my help, despite whatever dire warnings you gave him.” She turned her gaze back to Leliana in challenge.

Once again, Leliana dipped her head. “The Inquisition will benefit greatly from your expertise,” she said formally. Ah, there was the pain, pulling at her, the gentle lapping of a receding tide. “And I told the Inquisitor the truth, that you are ruthless and capable of anything.”

“Ah, of course.  _ The truth,” _ Morrigan smirked. “Could the same not be said of you?”

Leliana didn’t reply. Inwardly, she castigated herself for coming to this place. What had she been hoping to accomplish? She knew better.

When it became clear that Leliana was not going to respond, Morrigan went back to gazing up at the moons. “Clearly you are also capable of anything. I never thought to see you in Halamshiral wearing such... finery.”

Leliana grit her teeth. It was one thing to indulge the need to wallow in old pain; it was quite another to suffer fashion insults from a woman who preferred to wear literal rags. Though she wasn’t wearing rags now. She was breathtaking, a vision --  _ Leliana’s  _ vision, specifically. It was as if Morrigan’s gown had been created to mock the teasing advice Leliana had given her a decade ago:  _ dark red velvet, gold embroidery, cut low in the front.  _

Morrigan went on. “The uniform of the good soldier. And you wear it so well.”

Leliana had planned for the hurt; she had not planned for the anger. In a heartbeat she whirled, closing the distance, a knife held to Morrigan’s throat. “No. You will  _ not  _ mock my service to the Inquisition. You have not earned that right.”

Morrigan was utterly unperturbed by the weapon, as Leliana had known she would be. She raised an eyebrow, pushing the blade to one side with her fingers. “So quick to assume everything I say is an insult,” she tutted. “Am I no longer allowed to remark on your loveliness?”

The sarcasm was undercut by the roughness of Morrigan’s voice, catching in her throat. Her eyes held a deep regret.

“That is a right you lost ten years ago,” Leliana scowled, sheathing her blade. As quickly as her anger had come, it now drained away. She felt adrift once more.

“‘Tis a shame,” Morrigan murmured. 

They stared at each other for a long moment. Nothing good could come of dredging up the past, sifting through the dust and old bones. And yet Leliana did it anyway. “How could you do it, Morri? How could you just disappear?”

Morrigan flinched; Leliana could actually see the walls of defensiveness going up in her face. “I did not  _ disappear,”  _ she said. “I left you a letter.”

“A _ letter? _ ‘I must do this, do not follow’ hardly qualifies as a letter,” Leliana objected. The parchment itself had ignited to ash almost as soon as Leliana had found it; Morrigan had allowed her to keep no trace.

Morrigan rolled her eyes. “Semantics aside --”

“It is  _ not  _ semantics,” Leliana hissed. “I thought you trusted me. I thought you --” Leliana left it hanging, not wanting to say  _ I thought you loved me.  _ She had never presumed to think Morrigan reciprocated those particular emotions. Oh, she’d  _ hoped, _ and dreamed, but she’d never known for sure, nor had she asked. The truth could burn, the truth could drown.

“I did trust you,” Morrigan said simply. “I trusted that if I told you of my plans, that you would abandon all sense and chase after me. Because that is what I would have done, in your stead.”

Leliana blinked rapidly, her eyes stinging. “I would have come with you. We could have faced whatever you were up against together.”

“I know,” Morrigan said. “And it would have put you in danger far greater than anything you can imagine. That was something I could not do.”

Leliana shook her head, sniffling a little. “You underestimate my imagination.”

“Perhaps that is so,” Morrigan admitted. 

Suddenly weary, Leliana leaned against the wall, resting the back of her head against the wood paneling as she gazed up at the ceiling. “You cannot know how I worried for you. You should not have had to bear your burden alone.”

“On that we can agree,” Morrigan said, adjusting her gloves. “We all made sacrifices, and I fear there are more in our future.”

“Undoubtedly,” Leliana sighed, closing her eyes. She was tired. She should seek her bed. Ten years ago she would have sold her soul for a few more moments with Morrigan; the memory of that desire kept her from moving. “He is well? Your son?”

“Yes. Kieran is --” It was the sound of a smile in Morrigan’s voice, rather than the pause, that roused Leliana to look at her. “Kieran is the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” she began to say.

At that, Leliana sighed, once again letting her eyes fall shut. Perhaps it was best that she hadn’t followed Morrigan after all. She  _ had _ been very young and idealistic.

“--But only by the merest fraction,” Morrigan finished. 

Leliana did not open her eyes. She did not want to see Morrigan’s face. Based on the words alone, the witch could’ve meant any number of things. Leliana wanted to believe Morrigan was referring to their time together, even if she knew that was not likely to be true. 

So it was that she heard, rather than saw, Morrigan move closer. A gentle touch at Leliana’s hair, smoothing it back to tuck neatly behind her ear, a motion familiar even after all this time. “I never meant to cause you pain,” Morrigan said. 

Leliana gave in and looked at Morrigan. “You never tried to prevent it, either,” Leliana accused.

This arrow struck true; Morrigan’s walls crumbled and the wry, defensive expression was gone. “I am sorry you were hurt,” she whispered. “But I will not apologize for doing what needed to be done.”

“Nor should you,” Leliana said, tugging her tunic straight. Suddenly she felt very foolish. If she was to wallow, let it be done with. “I did not come expecting apologies.”

“Then why did you come here?”

“To face the past. We are to work together, after all. It would not do to be crippled by old pain or to drown in ancient memories. The Inquisitor deserves me at my best.”

Morrigan was still so close. Her eyes tightened as they searched Leliana’s face. “Is that all?”

Leliana raised an eyebrow. Something in her stomach began to quiver. She forced the feeling down. “What else is there?”

Morrigan licked her lips nervously, casting her gaze down. “While ‘tis true that I will not apologize for my actions, that does not mean I carry no regrets. One of which being....” She paused, holding her breath. After a moment to steel herself, she let it out. “--That I never told you how I felt.”

Time seemed to slow down. Leliana blinked rapidly, trying to gain a foothold on the situation. Her emotions were pulling her in every direction at once -- anger, fear, and no small measure of desire dancing wildly in her heart. It was unacceptably vulnerable; she needed to retain a modicum of control. “And what do you seek to gain, by telling me this now?”

The words might as well have been a slap. Morrigan took a step back, her face lined with hurt. “Gain? I seek only to honor that which we shared by giving it voice. Something I was not capable of ten years ago.” A hint of a frown darkened her features. “Though perhaps now, it is  _ you  _ who cannot.”

If Leliana’s words had been a blow, Morrigan’s were a dagger. They stared at each other a second longer, and then Morrigan turned to go.

The prospect of being left for a second time quenched the bulk of Leliana’s anger. “Wait,” Leliana called out, reaching for her. “Morri, please. Don’t go. Not like this.”

Morrigan lowered her head, and for a moment Leliana thought she would leave. But then she turned. “I fear there is nothing left to be said.”

It was a fair point. Perhaps words were not the answer. “Dance with me,” Leliana blurted out. 

Morrigan blinked in confusion. “What?”

“Dance with me,” Leliana repeated.  

“Here?” Morrigan looked around the library.

“Why not? You can hear the music, can’t you?” Leliana took a step closer, holding her hand out.

Morrigan looked just as bewildered as she had ten years ago, the first time Leliana had flirted with her. Yet she stepped into Leliana’s arms and allowed herself to be twirled about.

They danced, stiff at first, both of them unsure, swaying to a rhythm which bore only the most passing resemblance to the faint music.

Leliana still felt as if she was drowning, but now it was a welcome thing. “I’m sorry,” she said after several moments. “I should not have lashed out.”

“I should not have provoked you,” Morrigan said by way of apology. 

Leliana gave a faint huff of laughter. “Just like old times, eh?”

“Almost,” Morrigan said. She pulled back far enough to look into Leliana’s eyes. 

It was a very direct look, holding both a challenge and a question. 

Leliana thought she knew the truth of that gaze, but one does not lightly stick their foot in a scalding bath twice. “I serve the Inquisition. I cannot afford the luxury of distraction.”

Morrigan raised an eyebrow. “Judging by the dance I saw your Inquisitor sharing with the Tevinter, I would say he does not share that view.”

“Ugh,” Leliana sighed, rolling her eyes. She had spent too long working with Cassandra, to be mirroring her mannerisms. “They are smitten, it is true. But that is not my meaning.”

“Oh?”

“You broke my heart,” Leliana said. It was not an accusation, merely a statement of fact. “I was inconsolable for months. No dalliance is worth that risk.”

“Ah,” Morrigan nodded, the faintest trace of bitterness in her voice. “And do you think it likely that I would steal your heart a second time? Knowing me now, knowing that I too suffered those long and lonely nights, weeping myself to sleep at your loss, hating myself for what I’d done?” 

Leliana felt her resolve wavering. “I dreamed of you for years,” she admitted. “I still do.” Why she was saying such dangerous things, owning up to such weakness, was a mystery. 

“I tortured myself, changing to the form of a crow so that I could watch you.” Morrigan looked so vulnerable, so exposed, one could almost believe she was still the tattered young witchlet running rough through the forest. “So many times, I almost revealed myself, just to hear you say my name again.”

“Why didn’t you?” Now it was Leliana’s voice that was close to breaking.

“Because I could not bear to hear it said in anger,” Morrigan said. “I preferred the memory of hearing it said in love.”

The fraying rope which held Leliana to her resolve snapped under the weight of the word  _ love. _ She kissed Morrigan, or perhaps they kissed each other; either way, they crashed upon each other as if in a wave. 

It was hungry, desperate, and tender all at once. And if some part of Leliana was embarrassed by the small whimpers of need and gratitude that she made, then another part revelled in the sound of Morrigan’s quiet moans. 

The kiss continued for far too long. It did not break even when Leliana began to move, pressing Morrigan backwards until she collided gently with the bookshelf. It took the clatter of books falling to the ground to shatter the moment.

Panting, they stared at each other. Leliana expected to feel guilt, or remorse, or to be ashamed of her own weakness and need. Instead she felt a strange lightness bubbling up like a spring in her chest. She had spent years fearing this moment, convinced that her heart would break once more, that a reunion could only bring more pain. And there was some hurt, it was true, but it was an echo, a pale shadow. Ten years had taught her the meaning of obligation, of service to the greater good, of sacrifice. She could see now the truth of Morrigan’s path, as well as the truth of her own. She saw that the heartbreak of losing Morrigan had led her to Justinia, and thence to the Inquisition. And she could see that coming together again need not be painful. There was no need to drown; the past ten years had more than taught her to swim.

“Is this not a distraction, then?” Morrigan’s words had no edge; her eyes were wide and limpid, holding hope and fear in equal measure.

Leliana bit her lip. “Perhaps I... overestimated the risk,” she admitted. “After all, it would be far more distracting and painful to pretend as if we were strangers, no?” 

Morrigan’s eyebrow shot up, and her lips curved. “You may have a point,” she conceded. “Perhaps it would be best to... get it out of our systems, as they say.” 

Leliana pretended to consider it, tipping her head back and forth. “Well, there is only one way to find out,” she said, eyes glinting.

“I assume you know the way to my bedchamber,” Morrigan said dryly. 

“Of course,” Leliana shrugged. “Though I would not mind if you led me. The back of your gown is as lovely as the front. The fashion of Orlais suits you. I knew it would.” 

Morrigan rolled her eyes and began to glide toward the stairwell, a hint of pink rising on her cheeks. “Meaningless frippery,” she sniffed. 

At the top of the stairs, Leliana caught her elbow. She leaned in close. “I look forward to seeing what other dainties you are hiding underneath,” she whispered. 

Morrigan smirked. “Perhaps there are none to be found.”

Leliana chuckled. It was so familiar and welcome, slipping back into this banter. Despite the warmth pooling low in her stomach, she paused. “It is good to see you again, Morri.”

Ten years ago, even this hint of sentiment would have provoked a snide remark from Morrigan. Now, though, she looked into Leliana’s eyes. “It is good to see you as well.” The sincerity tugged at something in Leliana’s chest, but before the moment stretched over long, Morrigan smirked again. “It would be better to see more of you.”

Leliana rolled her eyes, tugging on Morrigan’s elbow. “Still so impatient,” she grumbled, pulling Morrigan down the stairs. “I’ll soon have you sorted.”

“Is that a threat or a promise?” Morrigan shot back, following half a step behind. Her hand slipped into Leliana’s as she allowed herself to be led.

Leliana smiled. It felt like the first time in years. She no longer felt like she was drowning, or floating, or anything of the sort. Instead she simply looked forward to the rest of the night. Tomorrow would no doubt bring new challenges, new truths. But for now, perhaps it was the time to relax and celebrate. Whether she had earned it or not, she intended to take the opportunity for happiness as it came. And that was truth enough.


End file.
